


Dark Young

by Wickedrider98



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works, Original Work
Genre: Cults, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Parent-Child Relationship, but take ot with a grain of salt since its eldritch Abominations, could be read as child neglect, humanity as playthings, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 21:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21087908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wickedrider98/pseuds/Wickedrider98
Summary: My playthings are strange in how they treat my mother, with their robes and offerings deep in the wood in the dead of night.





	Dark Young

My playthings are strange in how they treat my mother, with their robes and offerings deep in the wood in the dead of night. I lurk in the darkness, taking in their rituals the way they do a movie. It's entertainment, in a way. Watching them with their chants and their dances, thinking it will somehow appease her is almost comedic. As if the worship of a few scrawny humans would be enough to appease her appetites. They turn to me sometimes, when they try to gain special approval from her. They call me one of her "dark young", a term used with the utmost respect. They treat me as a deity, as though I'm some direct line to her. I take their gifts without complaint. They don't know that I am but my mother's spawn, not her agent. I can't tell them in words they'll understand, and even if I could, how would I tell my playthings that worshipping one of their god's young is like offering libations to a single infant spider sprung forth from an egg sac of thousands? My mother loves me, as she loves all of her young, but there is nothing beyond that in her affections. She provides for her children though, after all, it was she who sent me to the cult. Children need toys, and my playthings pacify me for the time being. They have many names for my mother. The Black Goat, Shub-Niggurath, I hear them shouted to the night sky in their incantations. Sometimes she comes to them, and my pull to her strengthens. Sometimes she notices me and ceases her wanderings for just a moment. She commends the care of my playthings, of the life I've carved out for myself. Then slowly, carefully, my mother stalks into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this for a writing group hosted by the YouTube Channel Tale Foundry to read on their stream. They really liked it, as did everyone in the chat, so I thought I'd post it here, for Halloween and all that :-) it might get expanded on later though, I'm really feeling it


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